Decisions
by stress
Summary: Decisions usually aren't between good and bad. They are between bad and worse, and it's often not clear which choice is worse. [THEME: MISSED OPPORTUNITY] What if Spot, when given the chance, made the worse decision?


Author's Note:_ This piece was written for the _Newsies_ drabble challenge site that I recently opened. (Information can be found in my user profile). The theme, for 1,000 words or less, was missed opportunity. This is my interpretation of what could have happened if a certain character (Spot Conlon) missed his cue. Poor Jack. I really need to lay off of him for a bit ;)_

Disclaimer: _Jack Kelly, Boots, Spot Conlon, South and David "the Walking Mouth" Jacobs are, unfortunately, not my property. They belong to Disney. Woot._

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Decisions

05.22.06

_Decisions usually aren't between good and bad.  
They are between bad and worse, and it's often not clear which choice is worse._

- Mark Stosberg

--

Jack Kelly looked at him, trying to convince him that Brooklyn should join in with Manhattan. That his boys should join this silly idea of going on strike. He even brought that little dark boy, Boots, with him to plead his case. And Mouth. _Kid should learn when to keep his trap shut_, Spot Conlon mused, trying to look interested. The truth was, though, that he wasn't buying a word of what Cowboy and his kids were selling. He sighed. "Not good enough, Jacky-boy. You gotta show me."

And that was that. Resigned, the trio walked away, starting their return journey to Manhattan.

Spot watched the backs of them as they headed down the docks. He thought he saw the mouthy one turn back and look at him but he wasn't sure. He had already resumed his perch, overlooking the river. _Strike? It'll never work_. He had his boys to protect, after all.

---

It was tense. After their semi-successful stand-off against the scabs the day before, the newsies were raring to fight again. And not only because of their success; they had a score to settle. They were already one short of their numbers. Crutchy had been incarcerated at the Refuge.

Jack, in the lead, sized up the scabs. He ignored David at his side. To him, it was not a time to remain calm. It was a time to fight. Punching his fist in the air, he called out: "Let's soak 'em for Crutchy."

The newsies never expected that the scabs were being protected by the Crib.

---

"Spot? Hey, Spot, you up there?"

The slim boy used on his tan hands to shield his cyan eyes against the midsummer sun. He peered down upon the docks and saw a dark-haired boy fighting his way through all the boys that crowded the wooden structure. From the distance it was hard for him to recognize the boy; all he knew was that it must be important if he was spending prime swimming time approaching Spot. He lowered his hand and fingered the slingshot stored in his back pocket. Something about this didn't feel right to him.

"Spot? Damn it, Spot. Can't you come down here?" The boy had made his way down and was standing on the dock directly underneath Spot's perch. Spot glanced over and saw that the impatient who that called out to him was no other than South, from Manhattan.

Nimbly, making his way through the wooden rods that made up the frame, he lowered himself down from his spot overlooking the river. Disregarding the spit-shake greeting, Spot crossed his arms over his chest. This was the second time a Manhattan kid came barging into his territory, demanding his attention in the past week. He understood Cowboy's attitude, leading Boots and the Mouth right down to his perch – he had known Jack Kelly for years now. But South? _This better be good._ The stare he gave the sweaty boy said as much.

South took a moment to catch his breath. He wiped his brow with a thick hand and glared back at Spot, too tired to be intimidated. "Spot, I just wanted to tell you that the strike began," he said, slightly panting. He had spent the better part of the morning hurrying towards Brooklyn and, as could be expected during July in New York, it was hot.

Spot quirked his eyebrow and kept his mouth straight. "What strike, South?"

For a second, South looked confused. "You know, the strike that Cowboy and Dave set up? Against _the World_?"

"Yeah, I know. What about it?"

"Just like I said, Spot. It started."

"And?" Spot put more behind his look as he stared South down. There had to be more to it than that otherwise South wouldn't be there.

South took a deep breath, one that had nothing to do with the pace in which he had spent the last few hours traveling. "Weasel, the distribution center manager, called in the Crib. They— they took out Cowboy. Jack's gone and a whole bunch of the other's got real banged up. We never had a chance."

Spot felt as if his stomach had dropped beneath him but his face never betrayed his emotions. "What are you telling me for?" he asked, a hint of suspicion climbing into his voice.

South shrugged. "It just seemed like the right thing to do. Jack told us all that you needed proof before you would let Brooklyn help. Something about showing you what we were prepared to do." He let the comment sit with the young leader before turning his face away. "I guess who done proved ourselves, now."

Spot opened his mouth to come back at South but found he couldn't. All his smugness and sarcasm had disappeared. _Jacky-boy, gone?_ "Yeah, I guess," he said absently and headed back to his spot. Once there, he resumed his perch, overlooking the river.

His boys may have been protected but for what? He glanced back at South. The boy hadn't moved from his place. "Hey, Southie? Count Brooklyn in on the strike," he called down. "For Cowboy," he added.

South glanced up and Spot could almost feel the surprise and remorse on the Manhattan boy's face. "Yeah, for Cowboy," he replied.

It was just a little too little too late.


End file.
